


This is How

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale loves Crowley, Aziraphale owns a bookshop, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Fluff, Human AU, Love Confessions, M/M, Some Humor, Some angst, Strangers to Lovers, Sweetness, kind of a speedrun, some mutual pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: This is how it goes. How it will always go, in every universe. Two beings are alone; one has been rejected by his family, the other is struggling to live under its weight. A connection is forged by accident. It’s a tenuous thing, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.Can they hold onto it? Will they choose it, over and over, in the face of the universe, in the face of fear? (You already know the answer. It’s why you came.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 35
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnironSidh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnironSidh/gifts).



> This is for the GO Holiday Swap. The request was a human au in which Aziraphale owns a bookshop and Crowley visits one day; I intended it to be all a single chapter, but my ideas got away from me (as did the time), so this will have parts 2 and 3 coming early January. AnironSidh, I hope you enjoy this!

This is how it goes. 

There is a man in a bookshop. The bookshop has very strange hours, hours not at all conducive to a smooth shopping experience, but which do provide novelty for someone passing by on the street and noticing _hey, that thing’s never open, what’s it doing open now at midnight?_ The bookshop is filled with first editions and signed exclusive manuscripts, gathered over the course of several generations by a single-minded and enthusiastic family. A family of which, at the moment, there is only one member left.

There is a man in a bookshop, and he loves his books with the fierceness of love he feels for every A. Z. Fell who came before him, every Alex and Avery and Abigail. And the love he feels for authors who penned works that have captivated him. And he never wants to be parted from them. So, he keeps strange hours. He keeps customers out. He is kind, or tries to be, but Aziraphale Fell will not let anyone leave his establishment with any piece of his precious collection. 

This is how it goes. There is a man who passes by the shop, on his way home from work. He doesn’t pay it much attention. Not much of a reader himself. He makes fun of the hours same as everyone does who lives in Soho, but it’s none of his business, really. He works a series of low-paying jobs and tries not to think about the future.

It rains in London, almost constantly. Mostly just a drizzle to turn things dreary, but sometimes the rain lashes almost horizontally through the streets, as though God herself is trying to blow away anyone who dares be out in it. (Or possibly She has other designs.) Anthony Crowley happens to be one of those, coming home from a late shift, and he doesn’t have an umbrella. Wasn’t raining when he went in to work. That shouldn’t mean anything, he should know better than to trust London’s weather, but Crowley isn’t the best at thinking ahead. 

So it comes to be that he’s fighting his way down a street, wishing desperately there was somewhere he could stop, get out of the wind and the wet for only a few moments, catch his breath before he finished the walk home. But nowhere is open. It’s too late at night. 

Nowhere is open, except, as he passes it, that strange bookshop - it hasn’t been open in three days, but now, plain enough, light is shining in the windows and the OPEN sign is stark against it. And it suddenly seems the most inviting place in the world. Strange owner aside, it’s a reprieve from the rain. Crowley dashes toward it.

This is how it begins. He slams in and drips water onto the carpet, gasping as he centers himself again. Then he calls out something about it coming down like a lead balloon out there. No one responds, or perhaps no one hears.

Crowley looks around at this bookshop. He’s never seen the inside of it before.

This is how. 

_____

“Excuse me?”

Crowley looks up. He finds himself face-to-face with a man he guesses is around his own age, though he doesn’t exactly look it. His hair is pure-white, not the natural fiery red of Crowley’s, and he’s wearing clothes that look like they went out of fashion last century. Look like they were made then, too - a waistcoat and tartan bow tie, worn enough they could belong in some old costume closet. He’s holding an ancient leather-bound book under one arm. Crowley doesn’t have to ask who he is. He guesses this is the only other man in the store.

“Aziraphale Z. Fell, is it?”

“A pleasure.” The man steps forward, looking as though he’s determined not to comment on Crowley’s bedraggled appearance. Crowley thinks he ought to be annoyed, for a moment, but the man’s smile is warm, if a little strained, and he finds he can’t be annoyed by it. He takes the hand and shakes.

“Just came in for a minute,” he says. “Just to be out of the rain. I’m not actually, er - looking for any books.”

Aziraphale Fell looks - relieved, Crowley thinks. He almost laughs at the thought. Oh, this man really doesn’t want any of his books leaving the shelves. “It is quite a bad night. What’s had you out in it?”

“Just coming home from a shift.”

“No cabs on the road?”

“Eh.” Crowley waves a hand, uncomfortable. “I’m saving money.”

And the face of Aziraphale Fell softens, suddenly. Crowley feels the warmth again. It’s a strange feeling. Like the wetness and the misery of the London night are being blown away from him from the inside. He doesn’t usually like kindness from strangers, but he’ll make an exception for this odd old bookseller.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “it won’t do to have you finish your walk without any covering. Are you far?”

“Nah. Just a couple streets away.”

“Take this.” And Aziraphale bustles over to a coatrack, and produces a wide, white umbrella. 

This is how it goes. Crowley looks at the umbrella, and up at Aziraphale, who is offering it to him with all sincerity, all earnestness - as though it’s nothing at all, as though he’s got no thought at all to how it will be returned. And he feels as though light is filling his chest, though he doesn’t understand why. 

It’s been a very long time since he’s felt it. If he ever has.

“Uh,” Crowley says. “Thank you.” 

He stays only a little while longer. He really has no business here, does he? And he needs to be home, there’s another early shift tomorrow. So he steps out into the storm again quickly. But now he’s shielded from the driving rain. Now he’s safe, in the tiny patch of sidewalk he’s walking over, because of the gift of a stranger.

And that’s something he can’t forget. So this, inevitably, is how it goes. 

_____

It’s slow at first; agonizingly slow. Of course it is. Crowley isn’t in the habit of simply dipping into shops to make small talk with the owners. He’s got no one to dip in and chat with him during his own shifts; they’re interminable, and the only extended conversations he has are with customers who are being unreasonable. He doesn’t have any friends at work. They’re all too busy and too tired for anything but tight smiles exchanged during breaks.

He walks home and his feet are sore from standing up. It’s not raining. Even on the subsequent days when it does rain, he’s got Fell’s umbrella, so there’s no reason to enter the shop.

Not until the day Crowley sees someone standing on the sidewalk outside Fell’s shop, clutching pamphlets in one hand and shouting at passers-by. Crowley’s stomach sinks at the sight of him. He starts shouting at Crowley, too, in an aimless sort of way, encouraging him to repent of his iniquities. Crowley doesn’t inquire what the iniquities are; he’s not interested.

But as he’s passing by the bookshop door, glancing backward at the man, he nearly runs smack into the bookseller descending the steps.

“Oh!” Fell stumbles backward, the impact was hard, but there’s enough girth on the man that he wasn’t pushed too far. Crowley, on the other hand, nearly plunges out into the street. Though that’s more out of surprise than anything else. He whips his head around to see Aziraphale Fell, eyes wide and crystal-blue - when did Crowley chronicle the exact color and shape of the man’s eyes? - holding a ring of keys, a book under his arm once again.

“Uh,” says Crowley. “Sorry.”

“Anthony Crowley, isn’t it?”

Crowley is surprised. He wouldn’t have expected Fell to remember his name. Their interaction was five minutes at most, and before that he hadn’t spoken to him at all, for all the times he’d passed the shop. And after that he hasn’t had the nerve to enter. “Yeah - uh, that’s me. Everyone calls me Crowley.” 

They stand for a moment, facing each other. Then Crowley finds his voice. “Your - er. Your umbrella. It’s useful. Thanks.”

Fell’s face breaks into a bright smile. “Oh, I’m glad. I’m hardly ever out in the rain, and I’ve got more than one - it was nice, to think someone was getting some use out of it.”

The rapidly expanding light in Crowley’s chest does not need to be addressed, to be frantically tamped down, because at that moment the two of them are distracted. The man on the corner has yelled something violent and angry, and their heads both turn to the targets - a pair of women walking down the sidewalk, hand in hand.

“Oh, no,” Fell murmurs.

Crowley steps toward him, instinctively; he lowers his voice. “Who is that guy?”

“You know his type.” Fell shifts uncomfortably. “He comes around here much oftener than I’d like. I don’t understand why he seems to favor this corner so much.”

“You ever told him to beat it?”

“I couldn’t.” Fell looks down; his face is pink. “I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

The man is still shouting. The two women crowd closer to each other, darting nervous glances his way; Crowley knows that look. Suddenly anger jumps up in his chest. Yes, he knows this type of man, too, well enough. He heard enough of this type’s stupid talk when he was growing up.

One of the woman stops, suddenly, when they’re passing Crowley and Fell. She turns to them. “Do either of you own the bookshop?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and turns to Fell; he waits for Fell to speak up, but he seems frozen. As if unsure how to respond, as if he’s forgotten who he is.

“Yeah,” says Crowley. “Yeah, he does.”

“Can we come in?”

Aziraphale looks down at the books in his hand, then in the direction he was going. “Ah, well - I was actually -”

“Please, sir.” The woman lowers her voice, inclining her head toward the still-shouting man. “We need somewhere to rest for a minute.”

Crowley sees the reluctance in Fell’s eyes. The famously never-open bookshop is closing again, it’s clear; Fell wasn’t expecting any more customers. But Fell’s not the type of man, Crowley thinks, to refuse such a request.

“Come on, Fell,” he says to him. He doesn’t know where he finds the courage to do it, to act as though they’re friends - only that he knows what’s right when he sees it, iniquities or no iniquities. 

Fell ushers the women in. The one who didn’t speak to them hunches over herself and crosses her arms, leaning against one of the book displays.

“Do be careful,” Fell frets. Crowley doesn’t know why he followed them inside; he’s got nothing better to do, he supposes. He watches from the door, arms folded, as the women try to find any space not crammed with fragile books to rest. Fell stands over them, trying to keep his distance, trying to keep his eyes, apparently, on every book at once. He looks like he might explode if anyone lays another finger on them. At last he finds them a clear couch to sit down on, and promptly disappears.

The woman who spoke is talking in a low voice to the quiet woman. It sounds like she’s trying to say something soothing. It sounds like the quiet one is on the verge of tears. Crowley wonders if there’s some way to help them. Other than what he really wants to do - and still might, though it’s unlikely to make any difference - just shout at the man outside until both of them have yelled themselves hoarse. 

Fell comes back several minutes later with tea. He’s still fretful, but he’s attentive, too, and gentle. He speaks softly to the quiet woman. Crowley watches for another moment longer before deciding to take his leave.

This is how it goes. Soon after Crowley goes, the women go as well, and Aziraphale locks up the shop firmly. He makes sure none of his books are out of place. The shouting man leaves, but Aziraphale imagines he can still hear his voice. 

He goes to bed later than he wanted to. For some reason, he’s thinking of Anthony Crowley. For some reason the phrase _come on, Fell_ has been lodged into his mind.

_____

Day by day it goes. Crowley finds the nerve to show up at the bookshop two days later - it wasn’t open the next day at all, at least not that he saw - and ask what happened with the women. Fell doesn’t really want to talk about it. But Crowley is feeling in a good mood, and he offers up his services to try and drive the shouting man away. 

Fell looks disapproving, but he also looks intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Crowley flashes him a quick grin. “You’ll see.”

So Fell agrees. For a little over a week Crowley comes into the bookshop every day when he’s returning from work - the shop is open every day, a novelty even the neighbors comment on. Fell is as unwilling to actually sell anything as ever, but even the slightly more regular hours are a step in some unexpected direction. 

Crowley waits for the man to reappear. When he does, Crowley’s ready.

He heard enough from people like this when he was growing up. He was raised in that kind of family, left it when he went to college. Hasn’t heard much from them since. He didn’t really mean to cut them out of his life, but it happens when you hang around with the wrong crowd, when you ask questions about the things you were taught to believe. 

“Hey, arsehole,” he calls, friendly as can be. “Here spreading the word of God, are you?”

The man glares at him. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Crowley gives an exaggerated shrug. “I’m a demon.”

“You’re a -” he’s taken aback. “What?”

“Spawn of Hell. My true form’s actually a serpent, maybe you’ve heard of me? The whole apple business?” He gives the most menacing smile he can; he’s been told he’s actually quite good at that, when he has a worthy target. “I’d appreciate it if you kept off my street. All the yelling and bible-waving’s getting irritating. Otherwise I may have to, you know, smite you off the face of the Earth.” 

The man’s glare deepens. He knows he’s being mocked; not that stupid, apparently. Shame. “I pray you repent of your flippant ways.” 

“Or it doesn’t have to be smiting.” Crowley’s undaunted. “I can do whatever I like to you, really. How’d you like to be stripped of all riches in this life? Robbed of the ability to gain money?”

“Shut it.” The man folds his arms and looks away.

“Make me. Pick up that coin and throw it at me, if you want me to go away.”

He’s indicated a large, glinting coin on the sidewalk. The man still doesn’t look at him, but he bends down to pick it up. It doesn’t budge; it’s been glued down.

“Ah,” says Crowley triumphantly. “Robbed of the ability to gain money.”

It’s really just a split second, when the man looks up, when fear flits across his face - under Crowley’s wicked smile, unable to pry the coin up off the sidewalk, confused and disoriented. Like he actually believes, for a second, that Crowley’s some sort of supernatural entity that’s put a curse on him. 

“Don’t play games with the underworld,” Crowley says. 

Of course it’s gone a second later. For all these people’s half-baked ideas about demons hiding around every corner waiting to corrupt the youth, they don’t really believe a thing. Still, it’s satisfying. And it’s made better when the man straightens and turns, storming away.

Crowley calls one more thing to his retreating back. It wasn’t part of the prank, but he feels like saying it, suddenly. Feels like saying it for all the times in his childhood when he didn’t. “By the way, from what I’ve gathered? God doesn’t really approve of the whole messages-of-hatred thing. That’s more my lot’s business.” 

He retreats to the bookstore, where Fell has been watching him out the window. He makes it inside; of course, once inside, they’re alone. No one else is around. He and Fell make eye contact as the door shuts behind him.

And the two of them burst out laughing.

“A _demon?_ ” Fell says. “Really? And I suppose you glued that coin to the sidewalk ahead of time?”

His laughter is bright and delighted; it transforms him, makes his nerves ease off his shoulders for a moment. His eyes twinkle, his cheeks fold into dimples. He looks - the thought shoots through Crowley like an arrow, paired with the return of the light in his chest - he looks beautiful, for a moment. 

“Used to do that all the time, as a kid,” Crowley says. “It was hilarious. I was a master of pranks. There was one time I actually managed to bring down the power in my school and they gave us the day off.”

“Oh, I imagine you were popular.” 

“I was never caught.” Crowley can’t stop smiling. It seems Fell can’t, either. It’s such a stupid little victory, but Crowley remembers a time when he could never have stood up to people like that. Folks like him have to take what they can get. He suspects - though he wouldn’t think to presume - that the same thing’s going through Fell’s head, as well. 

Maybe that’s why he lets the light lead, for a moment. “Mind if I stay for a little?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Fell’s smile pulls down, his mirth drifting away. “Oh. Well, actually, I was going to close up shop for the day. I stayed open a little longer than I intended -” his cheeks go pink again - “for you, waiting…”

“Right.” Crowley shakes himself. What’s he thinking? He barely knows Fell. The one hard-and-fast thing he knows is that he doesn’t like people in his bookshop. He’s trespassed on enough of the man’s time. “Sorry. Of course. Have a - a nice evening, Fell.”

Fell’s cheeks darken another shade. God, Crowley thinks suddenly. He’s beautiful like this, too. Smiling and blushing. It makes the light glow brighter. “You know, you can call me Aziraphale, if you like.” 

And this is how it goes. Crowley, groaning inwardly, because he’s just received a blow to the stomach and yes, he admits it, he has a crush on this stupid bookseller. Crowley stammers out a _cool, that’s - that’s cool, thanks Aziraphale,_ and then stumbles back out into the evening. And he happens to be clutching Fell’s - _Aziraphale’s_ umbrella, because it’s raining, and he spends about half his short walk home cursing himself for being an idiot and the other grinning like a madman, because Aziraphale is beautiful when he laughs.

This is how it goes.

_____

The shouting man comes back. Aziraphale Fell watches through the window as inexplicable gusts of wind send his pamphlets into a frenzy, as a speaker from somewhere in a nearby bush blasts loud noises whenever he tries to speak, as his wallet goes missing and ends up in the boughs of a tree that he has to climb to reach it. Aziraphale doesn’t ask how most of the pranks are done. But from within his bookshop he laughs at every one. Crowley acts as though he's still in grade school. 

Crowley passes by every day, as always, when returning from work; Aziraphale has tightened his hours again, but he watches each time Crowley goes by. He thinks about inviting him inside. There’s a sort of tugging he feels, an urge to let Crowley in whether the shop is open or not - but he ignores it. These feelings come and go. They never end up anywhere of significance; handsome, stylish men like Anthony Crowley aren’t interested in silly old shopkeepers like him. Aziraphale is the kind of person who grows old alone.

He organizes and reorganizes his books. He manages to go days on end with no one entering the shop. He keeps everything in tip-top condition. He takes out an old, worn copy of _Persuasion_ and runs his hand, softly, gently, over the title page.

_To A. Z. Fell, my dear friend,_ it reads. That was Alice Fell. He likes to think about her, sometimes. Imagine meeting her. Other times he likes to imagine Jane Austen was writing the note to him.

His friends are all between these pages. Among the old words of a hundred thousand great minds. Anthony Crowley is not for him; Crowley is bright and present and like a star. 

But this is how it goes, you see, slowly and slowly, but inexorably. Because there’s another day, weeks later, when Aziraphale has his shop open again. He’s decided it’ll just be a couple of hours today, and then he’s going to do inventory. He’s been feeling a little restless recently, and counting up his books always makes him feel better. He decides this, and he’s already prepared himself for a relaxed evening in. 

And then someone knocks on his door.

_Knocks_ , as though this is his house and not a place of business, as if the person at the door is prepared to leave again if he doesn’t open it. It makes Aziraphale feel a strange twisting warmth in his abdomen, and also a sort of expectancy - he knows who he hopes it is, already, who he wants it to be. He almost never feels anything but dread when someone enters the shop during business hours.

Yes, he sees as he approaches the door. Yes, it’s Crowley. And Aziraphale is happy to see him, happy to be interrupted, even, in the contemplations of his free evening. He pulls open the door and can’t help beaming at him, especially when he sees him shake rain from Aziraphale’s white umbrella - out the door, so it doesn’t drip on his carpet.

“Crowley,” he says. “What brings you here?”

Crowley doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eye. He stammers, when he finally speaks. “Well. Uh. It’s been a week and a half since the guy’s been out on the sidewalk around here - I think we really chased him off.”

That makes Aziraphale laugh. “ _You_ chased him off, I think.”

Crowley grins, relaxing somewhat. “I did. We did. Whatever. Anyway, I - I thought. Maybe. Since the job was so well done…”

He’s stammering again. “What is it?

Crowley speaks in a rush. “I thought maybe we’d celebrate.”

Aziraphale freezes. He doesn’t know what to say, how to respond. He’s sure he’s misinterpreted, sure Crowley’s going to clarify and it won’t mean what he thinks it means, what the tugging in his abdomen wants it to mean -

“I thought we could go somewhere,” he says. “The two of us. Grab some dinner.” 

Oh. Oh, it _does._

This is how it goes; Aziraphale hardly remembers saying yes. It’s a blur, as they negotiate time and place, as Crowley asks what kinds of food he likes and Aziraphale tries not to launch into a lengthy description of all his favorites. Crowley probably isn’t interested in that. He agrees to meet Crowley here, just outside the shop, at seven. Crowley’s stammering and blushing the whole time; Aziraphale isn’t much better himself, come to that. 

At last they settle everything, and Crowley grins a nervous grin. “So, seven tonight. It’s a date.”

Those are the last words he says before the door shuts on him again. And this is how it goes: those words, _it’s a date_ , sing through Aziraphale’s mind all afternoon. He whirls through the shelves with them, he sings along softly to the music of the record player in the corner. He keeps the shop open longer than he intended, purely because he forgot to close.

He pulls down _Persuasion_ again. Runs his thumb once more over the signature.

“Jane, my dear,” he says, “it appears our evening together has been postponed.”

Jane, darling that she is, doesn’t mind a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley takes Aziraphale out to dinner. He expected it to be a quiet affair, the two of them maybe learning more about each other, maybe cracking a few jokes, maybe just sitting in awkward silence. He hasn’t had too much good luck as far as dates are concerned, and it’s usually the latter he’s stuck with. Crowley’s bad at making conversation. 

What he wasn’t expecting was to learn that Aziraphale absolutely loves food. They’re at a little Italian place, and Aziraphale analyzes everything on the menu, exclaiming over dishes he’s tried before and wondering at the specials, speculating on their ingredients. His eyes light up when they’re reading the menu; he looks utterly, unironically happy. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, at some point, going pink. “I’m talking rather a lot, aren’t I? Food happens to be an interest of mine, but -”

“Don’t apologize.” Crowley hardly hears himself saying it. “I like it.”

He doesn’t know what he means by it, exactly. He’s mostly unable to follow Aziraphale’s rambling, and he’s never been particularly interested in fine dining; he splurges on the occasional fancy wine and otherwise eats whatever’s cheapest. But watching Aziraphale thrill over the menu is unexpectedly charming. He wonders how often Aziraphale’s met with disinterest, to be embarrassed before he’s even finished speaking. 

Aziraphale softens. His smile is warm, and it makes Crowley’s insides glow. “Well, I want to hear about what you’re interested in. Do you read much?”

“Eh.” Crowley shrugs. “Not really.” 

There’s a silence at this, and Crowley realizes, too late, the implications of the statement. _I just go into your bookshop for you._ Well, he thinks, somewhat defensively, it’s not as though he’s often gone in uninvited. 

“I listen to music,” he says, quickly, to cover up the moment. “I like, you know, Queen and stuff like that. And, uh - I collect things.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “Collect things?”

“Yeah, like - stuff that’s, uh.” He finds he’s going red himself now. “Stuff that’s meaningful. To me.” He has some artwork in his flat, paintings and sculptures made by some friends he had years ago. He also has some of his own artwork. He used to be a painter, back in university, when he was younger. Before his life was consumed by work. 

It’s not a very fruitful avenue for conversation. After a little while, Aziraphale starts talking about food again, and Crowley relaxes. He doesn’t really want to talk about his collection. It’s a relic of an older version of himself, one he feels he’s moving farther away from as the years pass. He’d much rather watch Aziraphale’s excitement. 

This is how it goes, how the date ends, how they say their goodbyes. Crowley goes back home to his cramped, empty flat, and stares at a painting that’s hung in a darkened corner. A night sky, a dazzling wash of stars. One of his favorite creations, back in the day. He examines it, searching for the crooked brush-strokes, the flaws he knows are there. And yet he’s unable to stop himself from thinking it’s beautiful.

Aziraphale’s eyes look like stars, when he smiles. Crowley suddenly can’t smother the buoyant feeling inside him. 

_____

Day by day, this is how. Aziraphale asks Crowley out on the next date. They’ve finally exchanged phone numbers, and Aziraphale texts him, asking if he’d like to visit an art museum with him. Aziraphale half-expects Crowley to find the whole experience boring. Aziraphale likes museums for their history, but he knows they aren’t what people would call _cool._

He didn’t expect Crowley to be thrilled. He didn’t expect, when they go, for Crowley’s eyes dart from piece to piece as though he can’t get his fill of looking at them. For him to try to keep quiet, at first, but to mutter something about the style of one painting under his breath as though he can’t stop himself. 

“What was that?” Aziraphale prompts.

Crowley looks sideways at him, then grins sheepishly. “I - I actually studied art history. At university.”

Aziraphale’s heart swells. Ah, now he’s found something for Crowley to go on about, to pay him back for his rant about food. He smiles. “Educate me, my dear.”

The phrase - _my dear_ \- slips out without his thinking. Crowley opens his mouth, then pauses, his eyes meeting Aziraphale’s as if to ascertain he didn’t mishear. Aziraphale gives him an encouraging look. 

This is how it goes, as they move through the museum, spending much longer there than Aziraphale had anticipated. And at some point Crowley gestures wildly at a modern painting and Aziraphale entirely misses the point he was making, because he’s overcome with sudden and immense affection, and he catches the hand out of the air and holds it in his. 

Their eyes meet again, and Aziraphale thinks suddenly how very nice it would be to kiss him. It’s not a thought he’s had about anyone in a very long time. 

_____

Day by day. They go out for more meals. They see movies and plays together. People begin to remark that the bookshop is open even less than usual; it seems the bookseller has something else that’s filling his time. People speculate, idly, on what it might be. But they lose interest quickly. It’s not a very popular bookstore. 

It’s snowing again, one night as Aziraphale goes to bed. He has plans for tomorrow morning - Crowley is going to come by the bookshop and they’ll go out to breakfast. He can’t stop smiling to himself as he thinks about it. When has he felt this way before? He feels like a young man. Grinning like a loon up at his ceiling, and thinking of Anthony Crowley. 

It’s snowing, and when he wakes up, the shop is groaning. 

Aziraphale knows something is wrong almost at once. He couldn’t say how he knows it, exactly, but some vague alarm has sounded in his mind - some memory, perhaps, of other snow-laden winters longer ago. He pulls on his dressing-gown and dashes downstairs, and his heart is pounding before he reaches the bottom. 

There’s a hole in the ceiling. Water is leaking down in a steady _drip, drip, drip,_ which echoes louder than it should in his ears - and the top of the shelf directly beneath it has been thoroughly soaked.

Aziraphale’s stomach plummets. He launches himself over to the bookcase, pulling out books as fast and as gingerly as he can - one dripping, its ink smeared and its pages stuck together, two with their covers ruined, three more damp but salvageable. He staggers out into the open with them and lays them down on the floor. 

The one that’s been destroyed is an old, already-worn book of essays. One he’s spent more than one afternoon perusing over tea, in the years he’s owned this shop. Aziraphale tries to separate the pages, tries to make out if any of the essays are still legible. But this book must have had water dripping on it practically all night. 

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no, no…”

His great-uncle purchased that book. Another in a line of A. Z. Fells that went back centuries. One of his priceless collection, and this one wasn’t even sold, wasn’t even lost to another searching mind - it’s been lost to snow, and it’s gone forever.

He bites his lip. It shouldn’t make him want to cry. He knows it shouldn’t, knows that it’s only a little book and he has hundreds, but Aziraphale has dedicated his life to the upkeep of a shop that doesn’t sell its wares, and he’s long since given up thinking about what should and shouldn’t be. He shuts his eyes and imagines water flooding this whole bookshop, imagines it washing away everything he owns, every tiny world that inhabits these shelves. And sweeping him away too, out to sea, where no one will search for him and no one will remember him. 

Then there’s a knock on the door.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. He forgot Crowley was coming, in his terror when he woke - forgot why he went to sleep feeling so happy as the snow came down. He looks down at himself; he’s still wearing his pyjamas under his dressing gown, still in his slippers and with his hair sticking out in all directions. 

But he finds he can’t motivate himself to move. Not right now. Instead he simply calls to Crowley to come in. 

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale sniffs. What will Crowley think to find him like this? He hears his footsteps approaching, hears him draw in a breath as he takes in Aziraphale’s appearance. He bows his head and tries to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks. 

“Oh, Jesus.” Crowley sinks to the floor next to him. “Leak got to your books?”

“This one’s ruined,” he says, his voice shaking. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Crowley puts out a hand and lays it on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale’s long since stopped caring about how things should be, but that’s only because he’s lived his life alone. He finds he’s embarrassed now to be sharing this ridiculous grief with someone else. He puts his face in his hands. “You don’t - you don’t need to comfort me. I’ll be all right in a moment. It just came as quite the surprise, this morning, and - I’m sure you think I’m being silly, it’s nothing but -”

“I don’t think you’re silly.” Crowley’s hand on his shoulder tightens. “Don’t say that.” 

The gentleness in his voice makes Aziraphale’s eyes burn more fiercely. His breath is coming faster now, his emotions spilling over - stark and cold and yet warm, too, and sweet. Because Crowley doesn’t move away when tears leak through his eyelashes. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale stares at the ruined book. He thinks of his long afternoons reading, the kettle on the stove and a plate of biscuits beside him, nose buried in old, cramped text and transported to other continents and other eras and other worlds. 

Then he thinks of sitting across a table from Crowley, and watching him smile. And he leans a little farther into Crowley’s touch. 

“Talk to me,” he says. “For a moment. Would you?”

Crowley is slow, so achingly, tenderly slow, as his arm moves to Aziraphale’s other shoulder. So he’s holding Aziraphale close against him. When he speaks again there’s something more than kindness in his voice. “What do you want me to talk about?”

Aziraphale remembers the museum. “Tell me about art.” 

There’s a moment where Crowley seems to freeze, and Aziraphale wonders if that was the wrong thing to say. He remembers the embarrassment on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale first asked him about his reaction to the paintings. But then Crowley exhales, and Aziraphale feels something in his body soften as he leans against him. 

“I studied art history at university, like I said,” says Crowley. “But, you know, I did some of my own paintings too.”

Aziraphale blinks. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Well, I don’t paint much anymore. Or at all, really, I guess. But I did once. I used to make - landscapes, and stuff. My favorite was always the night sky. Painting the stars.” Crowley sighs, and it’s a contented little sigh that makes Aziraphale forget about his books for a moment. “I made them brighter than they really look most of the time. I made them look like - like diamonds and pearls.” 

“Crowley the starmaker,” says Aziraphale quietly. 

Crowley laughs. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“I’d love to see some of your old artwork, sometime.”

They both hear the implied statement. _I’d like to come to your flat. I’d like to see where you live._ But it’s not commented on; it’s left to float freely through the air, comfortable as the snow hangs heavy over their heads. 

_____

They go out to breakfast late. Crowley lingers at the bookshop afterward, not wanting to say goodbye; eventually, though, he has work to think of. Aziraphale takes his hand as he leaves, squeezing his fingers gently. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For - for talking to me.” 

Crowley wants to kiss him. He doesn’t, but he wants to, wants to feel the softness of his lips around that smile, wants to connect the light in his chest to the brightness that seems to radiate off Aziraphale. He doesn’t, but he goes out into the street with a spring in his step all the same. 

He reaches his empty apartment and examines the painting in his corner again. Just quickly, this time. But he remembers the month he spent those years ago, with blue and black and white paint under his fingernails, examining the sky out his window and working to bring it to life in his hands. He remembers how wonderful it felt. 

A few days later, he takes another route home from work. Furtively he ducks into an art store and buys an easel and a set of paints. He feels a little silly, a middle-aged man in all black, wearing sunglasses, entering a brightly lit store for art supplies. But he finds there’s excitement in his gut when he gets home. When he unpacks the things and looks at them, and runs his fingers over the little paint tubes and brushes, he finds it feels just like it did when he was a teenager. 

Only now he’s not going to make the stars. He has a different subject in mind. 

There’s a picture of Aziraphale in his phone. He took it after the last movie they went to, and Aziraphale looks inexplicably beautiful in the muted lights of the lobby - like Crowley’s own personal sun. Or maybe - he smiles at the way the lighting seems to bunch around his shoulders - like an angel. 

_Angel,_ he’ll call the painting. But he won’t tell that to Aziraphale. Truly, revoltingly sappy of him. 

_____

This is how it goes as the year melts away and changes to a new one, and the weather even up in London begins to grow warmer. Aziraphale invites Crowley to come up and see his flat. Crowley takes Aziraphale back to his, and shows him his old landscapes. Aziraphale exclaims over them as though he’s never seen real artwork before. Crowley blushes and stammers and Aziraphale thinks he might be in love with him. 

It becomes a custom for them to hold hands when they walk on the street. The man on the corner is long gone, and Aziraphale doesn’t fear anyone else’s dirty looks - what can they matter when Crowley’s palm is pressed into his? What can anyone else do to him that would diminish that? 

It’s on a day when flowers are just barely beginning to bloom that Crowley takes Aziraphale to his flat again, and says he has something to show him. Face red, he says that he’s been trying his hand at painting again. 

“It took me a long time,” he says. “I’m - I’m a little rusty. And I wanted to do it right.”

“Show me,” said Aziraphale, eager.

Crowley pulls out the easel. The painting is only of Aziraphale’s face, nothing but white background behind it. Aziraphale’s eyes are crinkled practically shut with the brightness of his smile. 

Aziraphale’s breath catches.

“What do you think?” asks Crowley anxiously. “I know it isn’t perfect, but I think it’s a start. I hope it’s not - not too much, or -”

And Aziraphale can’t take another second of this, because he’s so filled with love he thinks he’s going to burst apart. He closes the distance between him and Crowley and throws his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says breathlessly, leaning his forehead against Crowley’s. “Please, may I?”

Crowley inhales sharply. “May you - what?”

“Kiss you, you wonderful man.” 

Crowley’s hand comes up to cradle one side of Aziraphale’s face. The touch is slow, but not with hesitation this time - this time it’s reverence in Crowley’s fingers. “I’d like that. Yeah.”

This is how their first kiss goes, both of them smiling so widely it’s almost difficult. Holding each other tight and close, here in Crowley’s old flat that he’s never loved before this moment. And when they break apart their eyes won’t stray from one another. 

“You could stay here tonight,” says Crowley suddenly. 

Aziraphale gazes up at him, stars in his eyes. “I’d like that very much.” 

_____

This is how it goes, until the day there’s another knock at the bookshop’s door.

This time Crowley and Aziraphale are in there together. The shop is closed, the front door locked. Aziraphale frowns as he looks up from the couch where they’re watching a movie together. He has his legs tucked beneath him and his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley doesn’t want Aziraphale to move, wants to remain like this for the rest of eternity - but the knocking comes again, and Aziraphale slides off the couch to investigate.

“Who could it be at this time of night?” Crowley grumbles, getting up to follow him.

“It was considerably later than this, as I recall, that you came by my shop for the first time,” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder.

Crowley scowls. “It was open then.” 

But he forgets his irritation when Aziraphale opens the door, and he sees who’s there behind it. 

This is how it goes, every time, in every universe. Crowley and Aziraphale stand beside each other and look out into a damp, early-spring night, and there are two figures on the doorstep - two drenched, shivering figures, one with his arm around the other, both looking pale and worn and as though they’ve traveled a very long way. One with straight dark shoulder-length hair, and the other with a mess of curls. Neither looking older than seventeen. 

This is how it goes: Crowley can’t help thinking they look like he must have looked, the first time Aziraphale welcomed him out of the darkness.

“My name’s Adam,” says the curly one. “I’m - I’m so sorry to bother you. But I live in the area, and my boyfriend and I need somewhere to spend the night.” 

“Spend the night?” Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, confusion written onto his brow.

Crowley isn’t confused. “Your parents kicked you out?” 

Adam nods. The other boy stares blankly at the ground. 

It’s a story Crowley’s all too familiar with. He’s lucky it didn’t happen to him, but he’s got friends, folks in grade school who needed places to crash on plenty of nights worse than this one. He remembers those nights just as vividly as he remembers his paintings. 

Aziraphale is looking back into his shop. He’s shifting from foot to foot, he’s indecisive; Crowley sees it in the way his shoulders tense. It’s the same look he had the second time they met, outside the shop with the women who were being shouted at. He’s thinking about his books. He’s supposed to be closed, and he’s so careful - Crowley knows it now, sees it after having spent so long with him - he’s so very careful about who he lets inside. 

But Crowley is far more practical than that. He knows the right thing when he sees it. “You’ve got nowhere else to go?”

“Nowhere,” says Adam.

“You can stay.”

Aziraphale flinches. “Crowley…”

“Come on, Fell.” Crowley casts him a meaningful look as he opens the door wider. The boys stumble in, rubbing on their arms to work feeling back into them. “You’re going to say no to them?” 

Aziraphale can’t say no. He knows right when he sees it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my content? Find me on tumblr @[whatawriterwields](https://whatawriterwields.tumblr.com)!


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